


A Million Shades of Green

by Dryad



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Death (but nothing you won't see on tv or the movies), Period Typical Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-10 06:44:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12906360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: It was a close thing; had I not tripped on a strangler vine, I would have been speared through the gut.





	A Million Shades of Green

**Author's Note:**

  * For [monkiainen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/monkiainen/gifts).



It was a close thing; had I not tripped on a strangler vine, I would have been speared through the gut. 

The jungle was dense; I struggled to walk, never mind run. Nonetheless, with Professor Calculus either captured, wounded, or dead behind me, and Major Dunwoody's brains dashed upon the ground, I managed to make my way not through hacking and slashing with my panga, but by twisting and turning and slipping between bush and tree and vine. My breath was loud in my ears and sweat ran down every part of my body, I was soaked through to my very toes. The damned monkeys gave me away, howling and cackling as they spied me, sometimes hurling fruits and small branches and other, more foul items upon my head. 

I knew the river lay before me - somewhere. I could not hear it above the beating of my own heart, but I retained an image of the crude map we had been making for the past several weeks. My thoughts momentarily turned to the past - which was when I tripped. Would that I had never said yes to Major Dunwoody. I was desperate to be away from the hospital, however, having grown sick of the Hindoo Kush and its environs. Dunwoody told me I was lucky to have been found, lucky to have been brought to the British outpost instead of being murdered on the spot. I hadn't the heart to tell him I had been there of my own choice, having contracted with Ayub Kahn himself to see to his household. The Khan, while hardly fond of the British, appreciated having a doctor of Western medicine at his beck and call. The fact of the matter was that I was able to turn my capture at the Battle of Maiwand into another year of life, or so I hoped. I was too selfish to put a bullet in my head, instead fighting over the bodies of my Afghani comrades, some still living, until I was taken down myself by an unseen attacker. Maybe I was left for dead, I do not know. I woke up to the sight of a white woman, vivandiere or whore, whoever she was, she took care of me while the fever raged within.

"It's like this, old chap," Dunwoody had said, sitting next to my bed with his legs crossed, smoking poorly cured tobacco which was more smoke than draw. "You can either let them take you for a traitor at worst or a prisoner at best, though that does not explain why you were fighting _for_ the Khan instead of against."

I looked away from his knowing glance, ashamed of my desire to live. Whatever he was offering, I was going to take it, for I did not take a fancy to swinging at the end of a noose, or serving at Her Majesty's pleasure until I was old and decrepit. 

"Come with me, Captain Watson. I'm leading an expedition to find the head of the Niger river. It's going to be dangerous, very dangerous. There are wild animals and natives who would kill a white man as soon as set their eyes on him."

"And? How is that any different from here?"

Dunwoody snorted. "Oh come, Watson, let us not be fooled. This is a mere playground compared to the wilds of Africa. Have you not read Dr. Livingstone's letters?"

"I'm afraid I am not current in literature at the moment," I replied dryly. Of course I had heard of Livingstone's adventures, who has not?

"He too is going to the Niger, and I plan to get there before him."

Now I became curious. "How? When? Is the Royal Geographic Society funding you?"

Dunwoody shook his head, smiling crookedly, as if greatly amused yet not wanting to share the humor. "No. This is a private function. We are also tasked with finding a scientist whose family desires to know he is hale and hearty."

I pretended to think it over, although in truth he could have offered a berth in the bilge and I would have taken him up on it. "You're promising me nothing but potential disease and death."

"Along with glory and ten thousand over the next ten years, should we succeed."

Ten thousa-?!

With a chuckle, Dunwoody tamped down the coals in the bowl of his pipe with one finger, uncaring of the heat. "Yes, more if we bring the gentleman home safe and sound."

"Who's to say he's not already dead?" I asked, scratching at the edge of the bandage still around my shoulder.

"A letter was received in London. Apparently it was authentic."

Interesting, but this only led to more questions in my mind. "How did you come to Afghanistan, then? Africa is hardly near by."

"I have contacts everywhere, Watson."

Which not only did not relieve me of any curiosity; rather it only served to make new questions. You shall have to forgive me, dear reader, for given my experiences and probable life span, I was unreasoningly paranoid of everyone.

Obviously, I joined the expedition. From Peshawar we traveled overland to Karachi, then by ship around the Cape to Bom. In retrospect I wonder we did not go overland to the Gulf, then through the Mediterranean and down the coast to Bom, yet I suppose that is all water, if you will, under the bridge, now. Suffice to say it was a long and uncomfortable journey. 

We spent two weeks laying in supplies before heading east into the hinterland. While I tried to observe the natives and take the pulse of the culture, I did not speak any of the native languages and was utterly unprepared for the amount of animosity we received. There is a look, dear reader, that a man gives when he hates another man. A coldness, a stillness, a lack of expression mixed with an icy focus wherein it is understood you will try to kill one another, and feel none the sorrier for it. 

The expedition was being led by one Major James Dunwoody, but the person in charge of it was a Professor Cuthbert Calculus. He was a thin, odd little man sporting spectacles that hung on a chain, and wore a short black mustachio and chin beard. He had a shock of black hair underneath his pith helmet, and I daresay he was probably bald underneath that as well. Prone to wearing bow ties every day of the week, in every kind of weather, how he was able to go trekking in Africa was beyond my comprehension. Besides, he was a nervous sort, constantly writing things down in his journal and muttering to himself. I was not sure of him, but again, this was not _my_ expedition.

In addition to Dunwoody and Calculus, there were three other professional soldiers; Ellefson, Lockhart, and Jones. Our native guide was a short man, shorter than myself, and blacker than night itself. His name was Oko, which Calculus once told me means 'god of war'. He assures me that many more men are named after God, though not our Christian God. I myself have no pretensions to the faith, though attend Sunday service. It breaks the monotony, and gives us a chance to speak to ladies. All of us save Calculus were single men. In the midst of the fight at Maiwand I confess I did wish I had a sweetheart, someone to mourn me after my death, but after I was glad, for there would be no one to be shamed by it, either.

Having read Livingstone and Speke, Park and Burton, I was confident that I understood what the dark green heart of Africa was like, yet it took no more than a day for me to realize I knew nothing. The heat, the moisture, the solid red earth, the million shades of green. Leeches easily the size of my fingers attached themselves to any bit of bare skin they could find as we forded stream after stream. Insects bit and stung, snakes the thickness of my thigh and effortlessly capable of swallowing a child whole slid into the undergrowth at our passing. 

One would think, given the above description, that the forest jungle was permanently dark, with little light reaching the forest 'floor', but that is not true. There is plenty of light - enough to see what might kill you - after the fact, unfortunately. Ellefson was was bitten by a snake, some kind of viper, long and black, that he stepped on after climbing over a fallen tree. The snake lay in the shadow of the tree, which is why Oko missed it. The bite was high, the snake having struck above Ellefson's knee. I cut the wound and did did my best to press the venom out, but I fear I did more harm than good. Ellefson died in agony, beet red in the face, sweating heavily, constantly thirsty no matter how much water we gave to him. His last hours were spent raving in gibberish, until he finally became unconscious and died. The rest of the party may have taken his death in stride, but I was greatly unnerved. As a doctor I am of course used to death by infection and disease, misadventure and murder. This, however, was something so different, immediate yet not immediate enough. Seeing the poor fool suffer was...difficult. And I say that as a man who is used to the suffering of the soldier with splinters of bone in his body from cannon, and pieces of metal from grape, the most horrific of burns from gunpowder. Added to this was what I and no one else saw; Oko's quiet smile of satisfaction. It was by chance that I saw it all, the briefest moment when I looked up from Ellefson's body and saw Oko while he was turning away, the corner of his mouth upturned. I tell you from that day on I was more paranoid than ever, every nerve on alert. I barely dared to sleep, fearing ambush even then - and in a way I was right.

The porters, a happy, jolly sort from the moment we left Bom, slowly became more and more quiet, more watchful. One morning I woke up and found two of them were gone, having simply left in the night without word. Over the next few days more of them went, until we were left with only three, and they glared at us sullenly when Dunwoody shouted at them to get ready. As I have relayed before, I do not speak the local languages, and to judge from Calculus's expression, he was displeased by what he heard. 

Seven days later, all the porters had disappeared noiselessly into the jungle, leaving us to divvy up contents of our trunks and strike forth with only Oko to trust.

_'Trust'_ is perhaps too strong a word when it came to Oko. Or maybe that was just me, for despite my pointed questions to the others, no one seemed bothered about him but myself. Certainly I had never seen him smile in the same manner since Ellfson had died...and yet. Over the course of my life, from my earliest days, I have always had certain feelings concerning other people, and have learned to believe they do me no wrong when I follow them. When I was little, it was that I should be careful around Uncle Nevin, and after what I saw in the barn - and the scullery with the maid, I made sure to follow my own advice. I was careful around particular horses, and never played practical jokes on Mr. Evans in school. Now everything was screaming at me that Oko was not to be let out of my sight. I know, one would think it would be the reverse, that I would be better off if Oko was booted out of the expedition as soon as possible, but the truth is that we did not know where we were going, did not know what kind of terrain or animals we would find, and Oko was the best at telling us what to avoid and what was all right.

I tripped over the vine and fell headlong into empty air. 

And then I hit the ground. No, it was a sharp slope slick with mud, obviously the easiest way for rainwater to come off the ridge I had no idea I was running up in the first place. Although I grabbed at nearby twigs and greenery, I could not hold on to them. All too soon the mud ran out and I hit stone, protrusions of rock and moments later I landed hard, flat on my back on solid ground. 

Dizzy and dazed and in a great deal of pain, I managed to sit up on my elbows, staring at the small river where my legs lay. An arrow of a ripple was coming toward me, I looked at it stupidly until it occurred to me that it was either a crocodile, a hippo, or a snake. Fear spiked through me and I scrambled back as fast as I could, my heels digging into the mud. All too soon my back was against a large boulder; my mind was in such a state that I could not fathom going any further or indeed, even finding a rock to strike whatever was in the water.

It was at this point that I heard voices far above me, a babble of language and I knew that one way or another, I had cheated death for the last time. Nonetheless, I relaxed, let my head tilt to one side, let my jaw drop open and my eyes close. With any luck the warriors above would think I was dead. There was one familiar voice - yes, it was Oko. I was triumphant in the knowledge that I had been right about him, though that did nothing for my situation. At least I could go to my grave knowing I was right.

There was shouting above - oho, someone was angry! I heard the crack of a breaking branch, a scream,the familiar hollow thud of -

\- and then Oko was next to me, facing me on his stomach with one eye popped out of its socket. His mouth was bloody, front teeth in splinters, lip half torn off. 

He was quite dead. 

I could barely breathe from the shock of it. Shock that only increased when the body was jerked towards the river. It was a crocodile barely out of the water, just far enough to grab the body by the foot. It could so easily have been me. There was loud laughter from above - I am embarrassed to say I had forgotten the men chasing me. With my heart in my throat I waited for the next bit of action to happen, and when it did not, I...I fell asleep. Fear and exhaustion completely overwhelmed me and for a few minutes, at least, I could do no more.

When I awoke, a native man was crouched at my feet, staring at me. I was too tired to startle, though I think I gasped. He nodded at me, then looked over my shoulder.

_"Bwana_ , he awake."

"Excellent. Let's get him loaded and get out of here, I want to be gone before those men come back."

Before I had a chance to speak, the Englishman who had spoken appeared on my right. He was dark blonde and solidly built, showing no signs of deprivation from living in the bush. But who was he and where had he come from? A quick scan of his clothing proved them to be sweat stained but otherwise in good nick. Even his leather boots were well broken in.

"You're awake, good lad," he said, taking off his hat to wipe his brow. "I'm Colonel Moran, this here is Hanif. We heard your lot coming this way and tried to warn you off before you reached the top of the ridge. Then we saw that unfortunate fellow thrown off and thought better of speaking. Looks like you've been through the wars."

I swallowed hard, the relief of my rescue almost unmanning me. "John Watson, Dr. John Watson. Thank god you've come, I thought I was a goner for sure!"

"Yes, I think so," Moran agreed. He reached forward and I grasped his hand, groaning from the accumulated aches and pains of my fall. "We should hurry, I don't want to be around much longer."

I was badly bruised and quite sore, but I was able to follow them upriver to where a tree had fallen over to the other bank. Crocodiles sunned themselves in a treeless bit of beach some twenty feet away, and one slid into the water as soon as Hanif stepped onto the stump. Shuddering at the memory of Oko being dragged under the water - I did not care that he was already dead, I could well imagine what might be happening to him beneath the silty brown liquid - I nearly ran Hanif off the tree in my haste to get to the other side. Moran barked a laugh and came across with far more decorum. He could be amused all he wanted so long as I was safe from sharp teeth and death by drowning.

There was no trail to take, or at least none that I could see. We walked for an hour, maybe more, maybe less. I began to wonder how exactly Moran and Hanif had heard me being chased. I was not about to ask - gift horses and all. 

Interestingly, the terrain was changing. The deep green of the jungle-swamp-forest (was Professor Calculus even still alive?) changed to the lighter green of a more deciduous forest. Even the smell changed, it was less dank with the odor of rot, and I began to think I could actually have a night that was dry, rather than filled with heavy rain. 

Just when I thought I could walk no more, the land having become steep with hills and valleys, we rounded a small hill, entered a copse of trees and then came to an actual camp. Distracted by the small fire in the middle of the copse, I at first failed to notice the tents. Tired beyond all comprehension, I dropped onto one of the logs provided for seating and began to shiver and shudder from the action of the day. I was safe, for the first time in months.

I was soon surrounded by more Europeans. This was a larger expedition than ours by half. There was Van der Dos, a biologist from Amsterdam, and Lesser, from London. McCarthy from Trinity College, the un-ironically named Greene, along for the adventure of it all. Moriarty, who was a doctor of some sort, I never did catch of what. A very eclectic group of men, all of whom were more than happy to talk to me and find out what was happening in the rest of the world. My news was a good six weeks stale by that point, not that they cared. I was a new person with new stories to tell.

"Back off, gents," said Moran, motioning for the men to literally step away from me. "His nibs'll want first crack at him and don't you forget it. Greene, get some coffee. McCarthy, get Watson some food, he looks like his stomach thinks his throat's been cut. Lesser, I know you've got a plug of tobacco hidden in your trunk, I'm sure you can spare him a cut."

If Moran was the leader of this expedition I was glad to hear it. He was a man of action and that was what I needed in the moment. I watched the party scurry into various tents, leaving Moriarty and Van der Dos before me. "Thank you, Colonel Moran," I said, shaking my head. "I'd be a dead man without you."

He grinned. He looked triumphant, standing across the fire with one foot on a log, his unlit pipe between his teeth.

"Don't count your chickens before they hatch," murmured Moriarty, seated to my left. Next to him, Van der Dos grimaced. 

"Don't be so rude, Moriarty," said Van der Dos, lips twisted in irritation. "The man's just come from the back of beyond and arrived in the middle of nowhere, I'm sure he could use a rest before he's on the end of your tongue."

I noted Moriarty's small smile did not reach his eyes, and came to the instantaneous conclusion he was not a man I wanted to deal with if I had another option. I would of course be polite, but his eyes...I have seen eyes like that before, on and off the battlefield, and there is no passion in them save for the love of pain and mischief. 

"That's the pot calling the kettle black," commented Moran. 

Van der Dos, a thin man only a little taller than me, shrank into himself. Clearly there was more under the surface of the camp than was to believed from when I arrived only a few minutes before.

Soon enough the others left their tents, including a man I had not yet met. Greene bore a small metal pot into which he dropped a few brown beans, carefully balancing it on top of several rocks in the middle of the fire, and McCarthy a slice of cold porridge made of rice, of all things. It was then that I began to have serious misgivings about my new companions, for who brings rice into the jungle? The humidity alone would be enough to make it swell, and if not rot outright, then mold. I gave him my thanks and set the slice aside to inspect more carefully at a later time. I was most grateful for the tobacco and pipe brought by Lesser, who gave it to me with an half-irritated, half-understanding look. I made a mental note to buy him a pound of the most expensive stuff when we returned to civilization, wherever and whenever that might be.

The new man nodded at me, waiting until I had my first puff before beginning his interrogation.

"I'm a medical doctor," I said. I licked my lips in happy anticipation of the coffee roasting in the pot. Who cared if there was sugar or milk? A taste of heaven awaited me. "And recently of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers. I was wounded in action in Maiwand, in Afghanistan. When Major Dunwoody offered me the position of expedition doctor I jumped at the chance."

"Did you know Dunwoody before then?"

I shrugged, remembering only when pain from my bruised back shot to my chest that I had fallen down a cliff. Hissing from the feeling, I was perhaps more emphatic in my 'no' than I needed to be. "No! Never heard of the bastard...good christ...why, have you?"

Trevor, for that was his name, he did not say what he did, shoved his hands in his pockets and paced to the other side of the fire. Moran turned his head to watch him, which was interesting. Trevor was of average height and build, with neatly clipped dark brown hair and large, very dark eyes that led me to believe he had a Spanish ancestor somewhere in his bloodline, seemed fairly innocuous to me, yet Moran tried to keep him sight at all times. 

You may be wondering, dear reader, how I was able to notice such things, given my circumstances, but I am a doctor and a soldier - one can never be complacent in all male company. Not only that, given how Moran had basically saved me from thugs and murderers, it was remarkable to see him wary of such an ordinary looking man such as Mr. Trevor. Especially since it was clear to me that Trevor was ill. He had not coughed, and I heard no strain in his voice or breathing as he walked and talked, yet his ghostly pallor and the dark circles under his eyes spoke of an illness he had lived with for some time, perhaps even years.

"So you left everything you knew, the Army and Afghanistan, to join a complete stranger and travel to the jungles of Africa?" asked Trevor with a grimace, rubbing his belly.

Well, when he put it like that...I suppose I could give his train of thought some merit. If I stretched. "Yes. You have to understand there was nothing holding me in Maiwand, Peshawar, or India. I am not married nor do I have any children, there was no reason to stay."

Trevor inhaled loudly through his nostrils and nodded once more. "What shall you do once you're done here?"

I…I had no idea. "Return to London, I suppose. I don't know if adventuring in the African jungle is for me."

I was not sure my answer satisfied the man, but it was the best I could do. And, in truth, I did not have idea, assuming I survived. I could return to London - really, I had no other place to go - join a practice, or set one up for myself. Harriet would sponsor me, I think, or her husband would. William was a man of no little means, and fond of Harriet, though I'm not sure the same could be said of her. Certainly she was close to his sister, Clara, and she had done her duty by William, giving him four sons and two daughters in short order. Yes, London would do, and there was always America if London failed.

The events of the day caught up to me, and I sagged on the log. Greene handed me a metal cup of coffee and I took a cautious sip. The liquid was blood-warm and bitter, and revived me a little. I took up the slice of rice and gave it a dubious once over out of the corner of my eye, not wanting to offend McCarthy. Nothing wriggled in it and there were no black spots, which I took for a good sign. Perhaps it was freshly made - in any case, I devoured it.

"Why don't you have a lie-down," Trevor suggested, looking me up and down. "And we can talk more once you've awakened."

He brought me not to a tent, but a hammock I had not seen. There was netting to cover it, for which I was grateful; the mosquitoes are ferocious, and I did not care to get malaria or any other tropical disease. I slowly got in and became as comfortable as possible, which was difficult. The thin ropes hit every darkening spot on my skin, and while they were all hidden underneath my clothing, I knew that I was turning black and blue.

I slept through the night. Well, I say I slept through the night, but I was awakened periodically and given a drink with a powder I half recognized. In any case, I understood I was not being poisoned, and gladly went back to sleep each time. My bladder brought me back to the world, along with the morning chatter of monkeys and birds and, of course, rain. Just a brief patter, nothing more dangerous than that. After checking the hammock for snakes, spiders, and ants (they all like human warmth in the cool of the evening), I forced myself, with much vocalising, to sit up and from there, stand. Difficult as it was, I managed to get to my feet without either falling onto my face or flipping out of it backwards. Dunwoody had not approved of hammocks, even though they made eminent sense to Jones and myself, and would have certainly made our portage easier, insisting upon tents and wooden cots built to keep us nearly a foot off the ground every single night. Once shown how to make them, we each and every one had plenty of practice. Even now I could build one, and years have passed since then.

My muscles ached and my joints were stiff, so much so that I rocked from side to side on my way to the fire. Now that it was daylight I took in the camp much more fully. More hammocks were slung in a circle about the camp, almost in a protective ring. As soon as I thought of that, I knew it was true. The porters slept in the hammocks, the Europeans in the tents. There were four tents in total, assuming two men shared each tent, that meant...I did a quick count. Moran, Moriarty, Green, Van der Dos, Mccarthy, Trevor - the forth tent must be for artifacts or science, perhaps even a mess...? None of them were about, neither were the porters, which was eerie. I was so used to being around people that it made me nervous to be alone. Still, there was a folding table with a tray upon it, holding battered tin cups and a pot, plus two square, lidded tins and several plates. I hobbled over and discovered the pot to be full of coffee. I poured myself a scant cup before opening both the tins. The smaller one contained a brick of brown sugar, which I happily scraped a few grains off of with my fingernail into my cup. The larger one was filled with biscuits! I crammed one into my mouth without thinking twice, and clutched another in my hand before forcing myself to put the lid back on. This was a fine and unexpected breakfast. The biscuits were a bit limp and stale, but tasted of lemon and ginger and I just did not care.

With my repast in hand, I made my way to the fire and finished the coffee. Task complete, I then took some time to stretch, necessarily painful work. 

When I was done, I knew where all the worst pains were, yet I also felt much better, much looser. I then became aware I had an audience. 

This man was one I had not met before. He was tall, with near black hair well curled in the rising humidity and heat. He reminded me of Moran, not by build so much as an all encompassing competency in his gaze. In fact, I felt quite judged in his head to toe perusal of my person. "Good day," I said, retrieving my coffee.

"Afghanistan or the Hindoo Kush?"

Taken aback, I hesitated perhaps too long, for a moue of extreme irritation passed over his face. He repeated the question, and this time I answered promptly. "Afghanistan, but how did you know?"

"I make it my business to know about people. You thought you would come to Africa when your mission in Afghanistan became suspect."

This, this was too much. I took a step backward, then another. No one knew - _no one!_ I don't even think the Khan knew I was spying on him. Although indeed, I never thought I would do so from inside his personal household. Given that he died at Maiwand, it was all for naught anyway.

He smiled in satisfaction, confidently walked toward me. "Why else would you run when there was no cause? Your wound was enough to keep you from being a surgeon, but not a doctor. You could have stayed in service, yet something kept you - ah. You were threatened by someone you thought was dead, someone who had figured out your secret."

At this, I quickly glanced around to see if anyone else was in the camp. "Keep your voice down, damn you!"

Casually waving one hand in the air, he grinned even more widely. "They're all out in the field, gathering sticks and bones and plants. No one's here save for us. Now tell me, am I right?"

I barged right into him, fast and hard. He was taken off guard, stumbling over his own feet and abruptly sitting down. His look of surprise would have otherwise made me laugh, but the shock was mine when he swept my feet out from under me with his legs. I landed on my more bruised hip with a yelp of agony, nearly vomiting from the sudden pain, breath gusting out of me when he hurled himself on top of me, holding me down with his weight. I admit I gave up, for he was heavier than he looked, and taller besides.

"Am I right?"

I nodded. "Yes, you are."

He lay upon me a moment more, scrutinizing my face. His eyes were quite amazing, I confess I have never seen their like before or since. It took a few seconds for me to recover from the action, to grasp his hand and allow him to pull me up to my feet.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said, as if expecting me to know who he was. 

"Dr. John Watson," I answered, hoping my title at least would afford me further consideration from harm.

"A doctor...good," he said, before ducking into the largest tent, conveniently also the closest.

I stood there, unsure of what to do next. Somehow he had deduced my true mission in the Khan's company - how, I do not know. I had thought only a few people knew of my mission; Grambs, who had recruited me, Gregson, his immediate superior, and of course Delaney, who had thought I was the best candidate for the job in the first place. 

Holmes poked his head past open tent flap. "What are you waiting for? Are you coming or not?"

Without any reason to say 'no' beyond contrariness, I entered the tent. It was overwhelming to the senses. Chemistry equipment was everywhere: flasks and beakers were on the steamer trunks stacked one atop the other, even on the bare ground. A hammock was lashed to a separate wooden framework at the back of the tent, and underneath that, a smaller selection of closed boxes. A hand sketched table of the known elements had been tied between tent supports, below it another of the Vitruvian Man. Two small books were on the folding table, along with an open journal with the first page half written. A pen and bottle of ink were the journal's accoutrement. 

Holmes was busily unbuttoning his shirt by the time I trained my attention back on to him. He was an example of a man in his prime, well muscled despite his slim frame, wider than I would have supposed. 

"Tell me what happened," he said, taking a different shirt from his hammock.

The memory swept over me and I took the folding chair at the table without asking. I scrubbed at my face with both hands, relishing the rough scratch of stubble, proof this was happening and that I was not dreaming. "The morning started out the same as all the others. We had breakfast and then packed all our gear for the day. We had lost a couple of porters by then," I said, shaking my head. "Dunwoody seemed to think nothing of it, suggesting that as the trunks became lighter over time, the natives would simply leave. You have to understand that I'm used to porters in India and Afghanistan - they don't just up and go on a whim. I think they thought Ellefson dying was a curse. Certainly the head man, Oko, the one who Moran watched fall to his death, was odd. I don't know how to explain it better than that. He always seemed to lurk, if you know what I mean, casting dark glances at us when he thought we weren't looking."

"But by then you were always watching," Holmes suggested, unbuttoning his trousers.

"Yes," I said, turning my gaze towards the view of the forest. "I was always watching. I tried talking to Dunwoody, and then Jones, but they all pooh-pooed me, told me I was being paranoid. None of them had been in action as recently as I had, so maybe their sense of self-preservation wasn't as finely honed. The day it happened...Ellefson had died a a few days before, and we hadn't buried his body. In retrospect that's what bothered the porters the most, I think. The way we left him there, covered by a few leaves and branches...I'm a soldier, Mr. Holmes. I'm used to the dead laying out for days before their bodies are recovered, but I didn't like it much, either. There's a certain...callousness to leaving a comrade on the field."

Holmes shrugged. "A body rots above or below ground, what difference does it really make?"

A true scientist's way of of looking at things. "It's not about the science of it, it's about human connection and the desire for ritual, to have things put in their place."

"Do you believe in god, then?"

"That's rather personal..."

"I don't know why, you either attend church or not."

I took a deep breath and shoved my annoyance farther back inside my brain. Holmes was obviously one of those people who hated religion and possibly all the social constructs that came with it. Not that I had much use for them myself, but it paid to occasionally put a good face on things. "Well, they were disturbed by it. Professor Calculus - "

"Professor?"

"Oh, yes. The reason for the expedition was to gather flora and small fauna for his upcoming lecture at Cambridge. I mean, not upcoming, but for future lectures. He specialized in...something or another. Small vertebrates and the plants and animals that made up their diet, the places they inhabited."

Holmes looked skeptical, and I had to agree. The jungle was huge, and to come here without any specific plant or animal to study was asking for distraction. "We had stopped at a wide brook, and were trying to determine the best method of crossing. There were no crocodile slides that we could see, but the water was both deep enough and muddy enough that they could be lurking without any of us being the wiser. Lockhart suggest we fell a tree, and selected one that was thick enough for two men to walk the trunks over, one at a time. Dunwoody agreed and we set about cutting one down, taking turns with the ax. Now, Calculus, though he had sponsored the expedition, was curiously un-interested in any of the more prosaic things we had to do. That is to say he had did not care where we camped, or if there was a water supply nearby, or if he was in danger from wild cats or jungle elephants or snakes or anything, really. I've never met a man less ready to deal with the regular world."

"The type of man who trips over nothing while walking down the road?"

"Yes, that's it exactly, precisely!"

"Tell me again the names of your companions, and their positions within the expedition," Holmes commanded, producing another folding chair and sitting down at the table next to me. He inked the pen and glanced at me expectantly.

"Professor Cuthbert Calculus, from Cambridge University. I don't know which college. Major James Dunwoody, ex-Army, leading expeditions into Africa for the past ten years. Samuel Lockhart and Huw Jones were both ex-soldiers who knew Dunwoody in the Army, and Ellefson was Norwegian, a free agent who worked with whatever army would have him. I know he fought in the horse soldiers of the Indian Army. The funny thing is, now that I think about it, we never told war stories."

And how odd was that? Of course I had noticed, because old soldiers always told stories aout where they were and what they had done, and we had _not_ done that, not one little bit. I think only knew so much because Dunwoody had told me when we were all introduced in Bom. Which led to only more questions I had not thought of at the time, such as why were they there before us? Depending on the weather and the time of year, it could have taken Dunwoody and myself months to get to Bom by ship, which was Dunwoody's preferred method of travel. 

"You're not a fool, Watson, no matter what's going on in your mind. Very few would think to question their companions, particularly when those on the run."

I could make no legitimate response to that. He was absolutely right in every regard. I continued on. "I...I've never been to Africa. I didn't know what to expect, and Dunwoody seemed competent enough."

"Those kinds of men usually do. Their lack only becomes obvious when it's far too late to do anything about it."

"As I found to my sorrow."

"Indeed."

I took a sip of my lukewarm coffee, which was now less pleasant as the temperature rose. It was going to be another hot and steamy day and not for the first time did I wish I was in a drier climate. I could take the heat, but the humidity was almost too much. There were times when I felt as if I were swimming through a pond instead of walking outdoors. "Oko was our guide and the only native I knew by name. The other porters kept their distance, although I don't know if that was due to Oko or natural reticence. Ellefson died from a snake bite. A day or two later Jones became delirious. He must have been ill, though I don't know what he might have had. Whatever it was, I can tell you it wasn't malaria. Some other tropical disease, no doubt. Over the course of a single day he went off his food, had an intense fever followed by gastric distress. I kept him as cool as I could, which was nearly impossible. I left his side to get something to eat, and when I returned to the tent, he was gone. I found footsteps in the mud leading into the jungle and followed them for an hour before I lost them. He made no sound when he left," I shook my head, feeling as helpless now as I did in that moment. "I begged Dunwoody to send Oko or one of the porters after him, to no avail. He refused outright, saying that Jones knew the dangers and that it was his own fault for getting sick. Ridiculous and disgusting."

Holmes twitched his eyebrows in either disagreement with me or Dunwoody, I could not tell. Pursing my lips to contain my unreasoning anger, I took yet another deep breath or two, then went on.

"So far we had lost Ellefson and Jones and several porters who simply weren't there the next morning. I overheard Dunwoody berating Oko about this. In some African language, not English, but I can tell when a man is having words spoken to him by an officer. Oko took it without expression. There were no porters left the next morning. Lockhart went mad, storming around the camp and shouting how we were all going to die in the middle of nowhere, how his family would never hear of his death, the usual. Calculus was oblivious to it all. He pottered around the camp with his magnifying glass, plucking this or that out of the ground, off of trees and bushes, putting them into tiny glass vessels or between layers of paper. He had no formaldehyde or alcohol, no preserving agent whatsoever, not that I recall."

It was another startling lapse of memory; I do not understand it.

"Have you heard of Africa fever?" asked Holmes, looking at me sidelong. 

"A new disease?"

"Only of the mind," he replied, setting the pen down and leaning back, stretching his long legs underneath the table. "Some wags believe white men are not suited to the African jungle, that our minds are too developed for wide open spaces, that the jungle makes the mind retreat to its primitive state - "

"Hokum!" I snapped. "What absolute nonsense, utter rot!"

One corner of his mouth curled up. "Nonetheless, it is a popular theory, held mainly by those who have never been to the continent themselves, or who prefer to stay in the loftier academic climes of ancient Egyptian history. And yet, case after case has proven there is some truth in the matter - "

Now it was my turn to eye him sidelong. He barked a laugh.

"Only men with weak minds lose what intelligence they had to begin with, for the jungle brings out all the flaws of personality. Take yourself, for instance. You are from the great city of London, yet you joined the Army and have traveled to India and Afghanistan, amongst others.

I looked at him with a furrowed brow. "You're saying I'm immune to...whatever affect this fever has on white men?"

"Your mind has already been broadened," Holmes said, steepling his fingers before his mouth. "You are not prone to being shocked by different cultures and peoples. You accept people for who they are, saving judgment for their actions rather than their words. A man must prove his worth to you before you take him at anything other than face value."

I had to sit back in my own chair at this most accurate perusal of my character. However - "Yet I did none of those things in this instance."

"Incorrect, my good doctor. When Dunwoody approached you in hospital, you were recovering from a grievous blow to both mind and body, as well as being overwhelmed by thoughts of escaping your situation. You took the necessary and right steps in removing yourself from a harrowing ordeal, and took the first reasonable opportunity to do so. Dunwoody sought you out; you did not know him. He had everything you needed to escape - " Holmes stopped, and I knew why.

With a bitter chuckle, I finished his thought. "He had everything I needed to escape and I took him at face value, just as you said I normally do not. Poor judgment on my part after all."

He shook his head minutely. "There's always something. I stand by what I say, Dr. Watson. Even in this instance you are fighting to survive, to keep yourself whole instead of losing your mind to superstition and decay."

We both of us remained silent for a minute, digesting what he said. What he said had merit, and I liked the idea of someone seeing that I was not prone to the frights of my more experienced companions. Experienced in the ways of the African continent, at least. "Shall I go on?"

"Please do."

"Dunwoody insisted upon going forth when we could not find Jones. I railed against him, but it was no use. We had to leave Jones's things behind, as well as a good deal of our equipment, no longer having the porters to carry it."

"Why not just stay there?" asked Holmes, brow furrowed. "Why not do all the collecting there and then return to Bom?"

I shrugged helplessly. "All good questions. It never even occurred to me, that that was an option. Dunwoody was adamant we continue on, and Calculus, Calculus began talking about some lost civilization he had heard of back in England, filled with gold objects and other nonsense," Once again I laughed, shaking my head at my own idiocy. "Can you believe that it's not until this very moment that I've realized that I was with madmen? I was so distracted by Calculus that I never realized that Dunwoody was equally off. Good god, I'm not sure I should be allowed to be a doctor any more, I'm so unobservant."

"Most people are," said Holmes. "Of course, neither Calculus or Dunwoody were here for botany or biology."

"Sorry?" I said, because I very clearly remembered Calculus putting items into jars.

"I attended Cambridge myself, and there was no Professor Cuthbert Calculus, from any college, no matter how esoteric. The man brought no preservatives and appeared to gather items most random. His failure to use the scientific method was the first thing you noticed. The second, the amount of equipment. You of course would not have known any better, but there were far too few research assistants in your expedition. Major Dunwoody continued to press forward in spite of all signs to the contrary."

Confused, I shook my head. "What was I for, then?"

"Oh, they still needed a doctor, and you were most convenient. And skilled in the art of war, of course. That was an added bonus."

"Please explain what all this is for, then!"

"Gold, Watson, gold. The Kongo is rich with it, all of Africa is rich with it. Did you not notice the plethora of gold jewelry and statuettes in Bom?"

I had, actually.

"Look," said Holmes, turning the journal towards me and flipping it open to the front page. A map had been drawn in the frontispiece. Two, actually. A small image of the continent in the upper left hand corner, and taking up the remainder of that page an unfinished map of the interior "You see, they really were here to find gold. Gold and the lost city of Nzadi. No one speaks of it much, most people believe it's nonsense, dreams of men captured by the African fever. "

"Wait, wait," I said, trying to wrap my mind around what he was telling me. "All of this was a ruse just to find some ancient city? In all of this forest?" I motioned wildly towards the woods beyond the tent. "How?!"

Holmes shrugged. "By looking for man made artifacts. Your Professor was searching for artifacts of stone, not flora and fauna. There was no formaldehyde or alcohol because he didn't need it."

"Unbelievable," I murmured. How could I have been so blind to everything - everything!

"Don't blame yourself, Doctor. You're not the kind of man who sees conspiracy everywhere he looks."

That was certainly true. What was more apparent was my desire to not remain a fool, because such a misunderstanding would eventually come at my expense. It still might. Yet now I wondered about Holmes. His mind worked faster than mine, for when I looked at him with the question on the tip of my tongue, he simply grinned and redirected me.

"No more time for obfuscation," he said, inking his pen again and turning the journal away from me. "Do not spare the details."

I nodded. This was going to be the most difficult part. "The camp was in disarray from our hasty packing. We struck out at noon despite my misgivings. We weren't in a good state of mind, I'm afraid, and I feared continuing on, and rightly so. We stopped for the night, building low beds and lashing them together with vines, as we had left much of our rope behind. There was one tent, which we didn't even bother staking to the ground, preferring to cast it over vines stretched above our heads. It was enough to keep the rain off, though it did invite snakes and other creatures. 

I am not normally such a heavy sleeper, Mr. Holmes, but that night, between Jones dying and the porters disappearing and the long hike through jungle I swear had never seen a human soul before, I fell sound asleep, like a newborn babe. That's how I was, like a newborn babe," At his questioning look, I added more. "They sleep nearly twenty hours a day when first born."

"Ah."

"Perhaps I was drugged," I suggested. "Oko always made the evening drink. We had tea until it became too mouldy to drink. Mostly we relied on Oko to find leaves that we could brew for tea. Most often it was hot water and a slice of fruit, or a sliver of portable soup. I stopped drinking the soup when I saw how much mould was cut off of it. I think we were all in the doldrums when Oko started a fire for our evening meal. He had taken down a pig earlier in the day and we had had some of it for our mid-day break. Only a haunch remained, for we could not eat the rest of the pig as we were now too few. Oko throw it into the coals, the whole thing coated in mud from earlier in the day. Dunwoody assured us this was a common method of cooking in the jungle, though I'm not sure I believed him. I think this was mostly because I could not fathom how many cookfires we would have had to go by, the ground steaming long past the rain. 

Dunwoody handed me the mug, and I was surprised and annoyed to find I there was a handful of fresh leaves and twigs swimming in the water. Now, I know you're thinking, _what else is tea made from?!_ but the truth is that I was used to the common leaf form, in bag, strainer or straight. The other men were drinking theirs without making a fuss, so I followed suit. The taste was nothing spectacular, rather green and a bit sweet, that was all. I retired soon after and fell into a dreamless sleep," I paused to clear my throat and finish my drink. "I woke to the sounds of thuds. I mean, I woke to thudding - oh, you know what I mean, don't you?"

Holmes knocked his fist against his thigh. The sound was lighter, but essentially the same.

"Yes, that. There was another noise - like that of a wounded animal, mournful and low and confused - and that was brought me to full wakefulness. While I may not have quite gathered what was happening, I instinctively knew someone was dying. Now this is the unbelievable part. I had got into the first bed available, on the end of the row. I had slept in my boots. Normally I would have removed them and put my socks over the top, to ensure nothing bite-y could get inside and kill me should I forget to shake them out before I put them on in the morning. I was so tired, however, that I must have forgotten. Not only that, I was otherwise fully dressed as well. I could not have made a better choice that day if I tried. Well, unless I slept with a machete, possibly a guard dog and a battalion of soldiers...but I digress.

Without warning, without even turning around to see what was happening behind me, I rolled out of the bed and took off for the forest. I glanced to my left and saw Dunwoody on the ground, half his head smashed to pieces. I don't know if it was Calculus or Lockhart who was dying behind me, but I wasn't about to find out. There was a shout to my right, and out of the corner of my eye I saw men running towards me, the porters who had deserted us all those days before. They must have been shadowing us all along, waiting for their moment! I ran as fast as I could, which as you well know is not very fast in this stinking miasma. The only reason I can think that I'm still alive is that I found a shallow stream and ran up it. The water was clear and God knows I made enough noise. I don't know why it took so long for them to catch me up."

"They were toying with you," Holmes said, putting a flourish on the last word as he wrote it. Then he looked me dead in the eye. "It may have mattered, which one of you survived. I would have chosen you, too."

I laughed weakly. "What?"

"As I said before, Watson, you are not prone to Africa Fever. You keep your wits intact even in the most trying of circumstances, the perfect sacrifice to their god or gods."

I grimaced. Far from the primitive savages I had heard and read about, thus far I had found Africans a people of culture and spirit. Very different from Europeans, yes, but not lacking in tradition or beauty.

"I see we are in agreement," said Holmes, eyeing me.

I could not interpret his look, though once again I felt I was being judged. "Eventually I stopped and tried to determine if they were following me or not. All too soon I heard the splashing of water, and started to run again. The stream began to get deeper, and fearing crocodiles and water snakes, I climbed on to the bank and ran and ran. I don't know where I was going or if I could escape them..." I paused, because thinking back on it, I should by all right have simply given up. "And then your man Moran found me."

"My man...yes," He murmured, frowning. With a sudden move, he snapped the journal closed and then turned his full attention on me. "What has he told you about me?"

"Nothing," I said, taken aback by Holmes's sudden intensity. "I mean, nothing, quite literally. I didn't even know you were here until twenty minutes ago."

His eyes narrowed, and then he nodded. "Very well. What do you know about this expedition."

I shook my head helplessly, wondering if maybe my rescue was not a rescue after all. "Nothing. Moran introduced me to your people and then I went to sleep."

"Have you ever heard of Moran or Moriarty before? Tell me quick, man!"

"No," I replied, lowering my voice as he had done his. "Should I have? Is there some sort of trouble?"

"Not as such - not yet. I beg of you, keep wary. Not all is as it seems."

And that was all he said to me, for he had heard what I had not; the men returning to camp. I had presumed they were all off doing separate things, but obviously I was wrong. Trevor was in the lead, a determined look upon his face. His eyes widened when he saw me - when he saw me with Holmes, I think, and headed directly towards us. 

"Holmes!" he called, rather more loudly than need be. "And Dr. Watson, how do you feel?"

"Much better than yesterday, thank you," I said, getting up from the chair with my hand outstretched. He ignored it to clap one arm around my shoulder with strange familiarity. 

Without a backward glance at the men straggling in behind him, he put a smile on his lips and whispered."Be careful what you say around Moriarty and Moran and keep an eye out for anything strange."

What I was supposed to make of this, I do not know. How could I choose a side when there was no boundary as to who was right and who was wrong? Why did Holmes and Trevor warn me about people I had only just met? 

"Holmes, we've may have found exactly what you're looking for. The vines are thick, with that particular shade of green," Trevor released me to take the strap of his shoulder bag over his head. Going to the trunk, he pulled out several small brown glass jars from the bag. "Do your chemical analyses and we can return there tomorrow."

"Ah, excellent! Now get out of my way, Victor. You too, Watson, I need to concentrate."

Thus dismissed, I left Holmes to his work. Once outside the tent, I was at a loss what to do with myself, so I headed towards the smouldering fire. McCarthy had put a fresh log on, and I could hear it sizzling while the damp wood tried to catch. Quite frankly it was a miracle anyone could get a fire going in the constantly moist fores. I was grateful for it, however. There was something about a fire that immediately put a man at ease, no matter where he was in the world. Maybe it was the promise of a hot cooked meal, a hot drink, the warmth. Fire meant life, ultimately.

McCarthy shot me a strange look as I approached, then glanced at Holmes's tent. I looked, too, and saw that Holmes, far from drawing the tent flaps as I expected, had left them open and was now tinkering with bottles and pipettes. It seemed he was the lynchpin upon which this expedition turned. With a friendly smile, I turned back to McCarthy and joined him at the fire. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

McCarthy, a narrow-shouldered man with dark hair and florid skin, stared at me and then shook his head. "Yes, no, I don't know. This whole thing is a waste of time, if you ask me."

"Why?" I asked, rubbing my hands together. One drop of water landed on my forehead, and then another. The fire was not long for the world, I feared.

"He and Trevor are the only ones who know why we're really out here," he looked at me earnestly. "You've come to the wrong place, sir. You should have continued on!"

"McCarthy, you old sod, you telling Dr. Watson all of our little secrets?

"Of course not, Mr. Moriarty," said McCarthy, bobbing his head in deference to the other man and taking a step back. "I've got to, there's something I need to take care of. Mr. Moriarty, Mr. Watson - "

Moriarty watched McCarthy practically run in the opposite direction, while I quickly took Moriarty's measure. He was a short man, slightly shorter than myself, in all honesty, and very pale. Unbelievably, his hair was slicked back with pomade, and his clothing impeccably tailored. What kind of man has clothes tailored for the bush? A ball or some other formal event, of course, but the jungle? He was Irish, his accent slight but noticeable to my ear, and when he smiled at me, I saw that he had dead eyes, and suddenly Trevor and McCarthy's warnings seemed less unusual.

"And how are we doing today, Mr. Watson?" he asked, the lilt in his voice turning odd in cadence and inflection.

"Much better than yesterday, thank you."

"Mm, I don't doubt it. Running through the jungle with those boys chasing after you can so drain a man."

"Indeed."

Moriarty blinked at me. Uncomfortable, I went on the attack. "And what about you, Mr. Moriarty? What brings you to Africa from the cool climes of Eire?"

"Eire? Faith and begorrah, are you familiar with my little island? I do miss it so. Africa has its charms, quite literally. I came here to find Nzere of Nzadi, just like everyone else. Or has Holmes told you differently? Is he here doing research and research alone?"

The mocking tone set me on edge. I determined not to show it, though I think I failed rather miserably. "I've heard others refer to Nzere of Nzadi. It's a lost city, right? Made of gold or some such?"

"Yes, yes that's it! That's the one! See, you _have_ heard of it, I knew it, I just knew it! Do come join us, Mr. Watson. It's ever so much fun, especially when the snakes come out at night, don't you think? We almost lost Greene to a jungle cat last week, and McCarthy had an unfortunate slip by the riverside, nearly came up in a crocodile's belly. Thank goodness Mr. Moran was there to save him. I tell you, it was a close run with death. Did you know that if a crocodile doesn't kill you, if it just cuts you with it's big, sharp teeth, infection can set in and you'll die a slow and horrible death?"

I did not like Mr. Moriarty. "I did know that, yes. And not only crocodiles, but most other animals as well. Those that root in the dirt or dirty water, such as boar and hippopotamus are particularly susceptible to giving man disease, if not death outright."

Moriarty flashed white teeth, which made me dislike him even more. I needed no other words to keep my distance; his strange manner and rudeness was enough.

"So glad to hear it. Sooo many doctors these days don't keep up with modern medicine. Coo, Colonel Moran!"

Speaking of being glad, I was more than happy to see Moran striding towards us, a boar slung over his shoulder. I could have told him he should be wary of even the most minor of cuts from the boar, however, I did not. I have no idea why. As a doctor, I suppose I am constantly telling people to be careful, yet I...Moran was not a man who would take kindly upon such information. I knew his type intimately: capable, ruthless, driven. The kind of man who could turn on a ha'penny, the kind of man who might look upon you favorably until you made the mistake of suggesting one's safety might be more important than one's ability to have fun.

How and why I reached this conclusion simply by the way he walked across the clearing to Moriarty and myself remains a mystery to this day. All I know is that my opinion of him changed in the two or three seconds to make that walk. I will always be grateful he saved my life. Beyond that...I may be slow to wisdom, but I do eventually get there.

Moran grinned, his mouth full of white teeth. "Moriarty! Making friends with Watson?"

"Absolutely. Are we not friends, Mr. Watson?"

"Dr. Watson," I corrected, longing to get out of their company and finding no good reason to do so. 

"If you like," said Moran, slinging the pig to the ground, prodding it with his toe. "You can set your knife skills to work for our supper."

"Watson, I need you!"

With raised eyebrows, I turned towards the tent where Holmes was working. A man used to getting his own way, with that kind of bellow. He gestured impatiently at me and I left Moran and Moriarty.

"Hold that beaker steady," Holmes commanded, once I was by his side. "No, not that one, use the clean one in the low pocket."

He was wearing a bib, and the pocket was right in front - I did as asked without thinking too much more of it. 

"I hope you weren't interested in hearing what they have to say, they're hardly trustworthy," he said under his breath.

I responded equally quietly. "It didn't take me long to realize they have nothing I want to hear. One or both of them is quite mad."

One corner of his mouth quirked up. "Steady now, this will burn your hands without gloves. They are fiercely intelligent. Moriarty is one of the most brilliant men I know, but he is not quite right. Nor is Moran."

"So I figured."

I shut my mouth and helped him with his experiments. It had been a long time since I had last taken chemistry, and his skills were far beyond my own. We continued on until the smell of roasted pig became too much for me, and I darted out to the fire to partake of the feast. Holmes did not join us.

The meat was too hot to eat, though I tempted fate by trying to do so anyway, earning burned fingers. Mr. Trevor sat next to me with his own plate, a few green leaves next to the pork. He pulled a piece of pork onto a leaf and used it as one would a piece bread. He saw me watching and offered his plae, but I shook my head. Dunwoody's porters had gathered the leaves every day, using them as scoops for their spicy corn stews. The leaves looked innocuous enough, with a soft, velvety surface texture and a silver sheen on the underside. They could be thick and rigid, like a succulent, or as thin as an oak leaf. I had tried both, the thin one coated in groundnut paste and spices hot enough to make me sweat, while the thick one was loaded with the sour pickle everyone in this part of the world seemed to eat. In my notes I think I drew a picture of myself shouting, for the sour pickle was not dissimilar to salted lemon, with the added tang of fruity vinegar and herbs with which I was unfamiliar. Not only that, the velvet coated my throat and made it prickle, a sure sign that I should not eat it.

While we ate, I listened to my companions talk, watching how they related to one another. Moran and Moriarty were friends, while McCarthy, Greene, and Van der Dos were equally chummy. Each group kept slightly apart from the others in a way I thought was unfortunately. The jungle is too wild a place for men to separate themselves, especially in such a small company. If there were a hundred men or more, of course, that would make sense, but there were only what, seven or eight of us. Major Dunwoody would have chatted to each group, making sure everyone knew they were part of a greater whole. Someone was missing, however. "Where's Mr. Lesser?"

"In the field," answered Moriarty, his eyes bright. "I sent him with Hanif to find a good stretch of water where we can bathe. I'm sure he'll back back before darkness begins to fall."

An unsatisfactory answer, yet I was not about to question it. I finished my slice of pork and was about to ask Trevor how long they had been in the Kongo, when he froze, a look of intense thought on his face. "Trevor?"

He put his plate aside and swallowed, frowning.

"Are you alright? Trevor?" Alarmed, I put my food down as well and took his upper arm. "Have you got something stuck in your throat?"

Trevor looked at me and grabbed my leg, which was when I knew he truly was in distress. "Alright, can you talk? No? Can you breathe?"

He nodded, then started to stand, only to bend over and cough. A second later he sucked in a breath - he wheezed, not dissimilar to someone with Whooping Cough. I was reaching out to pound him on the back when he coughed again, then vomited, a tide of blood spilling to the ground and splashing onto my boots.

Someone shouted for Holmes. Trevor collapsed, and I busied myself with laying him on the ground. The back of his trousers were also stained - he had voided himself in the same moment as the cough. Glancing at the vomit, I could see only two bites of solid food form the pork he had just eaten, and what appeared to be chewed leaves. The rest of it contained granules and black clots of blood. 

I laid Trevor on his side, and was about to clear the the mess away from his mouth when someone shoved me away. Stunned, I stared up at Holmes, unable to comprehend what would have possessed the man to do such a heinous thing. "I'm a _doctor_ , man!"

Mouth working with unidentifiable emotion, Holmes was staring at Trevor, who was now having a seizure. Just as I got to my feet, Moran put his hand on my shoulder to keep me where I was. 

"There's no help for him, Dr. Watson. He's got a particular type of enteric fever you don't survive. I've seen whole villages wiped out from it," He shook his head solemnly. "There's no hope for him, and there won't be any for us if we touch him further."

Still across the fire, Van der Dos suddenly bolted into a tent, Greene hot on his heels. There was a clatter of tin as McCarthy hurled his plate to the ground and followed suit. Moriarty, on the other hand, came closer, still eating. 

Dear reader, I have seen nothing like it since then. I have, however, contacted doctors familiar with that part of Africa, and all have said there is a peculiar fever that sweeps through small villages in the jungle that kills nearly all who come in contact with it. I have heard tales of people who die within a day and night, bleeding from every orifice, even their very skin bleeds. Vomit and black bile, extreme fluid loss - it is horrific. When the doctors and missionaries come to such villages they do not even enter them, preferring to fire them from afar and raze them to the ground. 

Writing this now, it is unbelievable to me that it was Moran who saved my life. Moran, of all people.

Holmes crouched by Trevor's head and began to speak in a low monotone. Moran pulled me back, and together we left Holmes alone with the dying man. 

"We'll have to burn the body," he said, speaking only for my benefit.

Just as I opened my mouth to respond, I instead found myself jumping at the reverberation of drums from all around us. They were very close and very loud, deep as thunder and as startling.

Moran swore and clapped one hand to the panga on his belt. He looked around wildly, then apparently remembered I was there, too. Pushing me towards Holmes's tent, he spoke fast. "They're on to us. Grab Holmes's panga and anything you think you can use. I'll get the others. Make sure Holmes meets us at the river, got it?"

"The river," I repeated, hoping Holmes knew where it was, for I had no idea. Once inside the tent I did as Moran commanded, grabbing the two canteens hanging from yet another line strung between tent supports, an empty bag, the panga by the flap. At the last I hesitated, glancing around the tent, trying desperately to think of anything that would be useful. My gaze hit upon the journal and without thinking, I took it and the one beneath and stuffed them into the bag, along with a palm-sized tin in which something rattled. Why I took that, I do not know. I suppose I thought it would come in useful, even if only to write our names and put them in the pocket of my shirt, so someone would know who we were when our bodies were found. Macabre, I know. But, better to think of it ahead then leave our families in doubt - look at what happened to Ellefson, and tell me I am wrong. The only way you know of what happened to him, dear reader, is that I am alive to tell the tale.

The drums were getting louder, and I felt the hair raise on the back of my neck. Something - somebody - was coming. We all have heard stories of African war drums, and I am here to tell you they are even more frightening and ominous in person than what the newspapers can describe. We were doomed to torture and death if we could not escape the warriors who were close by. To this day I do not know why we were targeted, only that our deaths were imminent.

Outside, Holmes was still standing next to Trevor. By the stillness of Trevor's body I could see he was dead, and by the stillness of Holmes, I could tell he was grieving a very close friend. We did not have time for it. I took his arm and pulled him away. "Which way to the river - _HOLMES,"_ I shouted, for he had not responded. "Which way to the river?"

At that, he blinked at me, and then, looking around, came to immediate understanding. "This way - come!"

Once again, I found myself running through the forest. The pounding of the drums matched the pounding of my hear, and fear kept me at the heels of Holmes's longer legs. 

We ran. At times I feel as though I looked back and saw dark faces amongst the shadows, and long spears with feathers attached to them. It seemed to me that we were flanked by figures on either side of us, urging us on, mocking us with taunts and high pitched screams and strange hooting noises. Perhaps it was only in my imagination, yet in my terror I saw trouble everywhere. 

The river came upon us suddenly. One moment we were running through the forest, and the next we were on the bank of a wide, swift flowing river. There were rapids on the far side and I saw no way to cross. "Holmes," I cried, gesturing helplessly at the water.

He looked at me, looked back, and without warning pushed me off the bank and into the water. 

Instantly I was overcome, pulled under by the current and banged against hidden rocks. When I surfaced, sputtering and coughing, I was far from where I had come and could no longer see Holmes, or any other member of the party. 

All I could do was try and ride the water until it was calm enough for me to swim out, or until I could stand and wade to dry land. Unfortunately, the river was my master rather than the reverse, and though I struggled to reach the shore, hunger and exhaustion heavied my limbs and eventually my mind, until I calmed and accepted I my death, the third and final death of my adventure abroad.

 

 

CODA:

London, grey London. Cool, with a fine mist falling and turning the sky dark in the middle of the day. I was awaiting at a building just off the Marylebone road, on Baker Street. I was desperate to move from my garret flat to somewhere altogether warmer and cleaner. If I had not met my old friend Stamford only the previous day, I might have hurled myself from the garret window only this very morning. 

Stamford sent a note last night, telling me to meet him here at ten in the morning. I had to walk as I used the last of my coin to buy a coffee and a sweet roll for my breakfast, so I was some ten minutes late. I hobbled to the front door of 221B and rapped the head of my cane against it. The door whipped open a moment later, and I goggled at the apparition before me. 

"Watson!"

"Holmes, by Jove!" I grasped his hand with both of mine and shook it for all I was worth, so glad was I to see him. "I was sure you had perished!"

"And I you," he answered, clearly as pleased to see me as I was to see him. "Do come in."

He introduced me to the landlady, Mrs. Hudson, then drew my upstairs before she had more than a chance to say 'hello'. The parlour was a mess, but charmingly so. I had seen bachelor pads far more filthy, and I did not much care; I was more than pleased to be in a warm room. The room upstairs was bigger than my current garret, and had a water closet, besides. Absolute heaven! I agreed upon the weekly amount, figuring I could win it later in the evening, and happily sat in the parlour with Holmes to tell what happened after he pushed me into the river.

"I washed up on the shore, insensible. Really, I have no idea how long I was in the water or how I managed to survive, I have very little memory of it. The natives under the care of a local missionary, Father Francois, found me and brought me to him, where I spent a week recovering. Although I told Father Francois where I left you, he said there was no possibility of going back into the bush, it was too dangerous. Apparently there was another group of Europeans who were set upon and slaughtered," I said, shrugging. "I didn't think it was you, but with no evidence to the contrary - "

Holmes nodded and touched an ember to the bowl of his pipe. Leaning against the mantel, he motioned for me to continue.

"Well, I left for Bom the next day, watching the shore for bloated bodies. The only ones I saw were cattle who had drowned, and fat crocodiles. I booked working passage as a doctor on a ship back to England, have now been here for two months, living on my pension and trying not to hurl myself out the garret window."

"A bad case of the doldrums," said Holmes. "Yes, I am intimately acquainted with them myself. You are here now, and perhaps can help me in my work."

Work? "If I can, of course. But Holmes, I must tell you, I think I saw Colonel Moran the other day. I was leaving the Tube and I saw a man looking at me. He was missing an eye and his face was ravaged from some infection or another, but I swear it was him. He tipped his hat at me and grinned, a horrible rictus if ever I saw one."

Swift as an adder, Holmes was on the settee, leaning into my space. "Are you sure? Was Moriarty with him?"

"There was another gentleman with him…" I said slowly, thinking back on what I had seen. "It could have been Moriarty, the man was shorter than me, and dark haired."

Holmes leaned back, and smiled enigmatically. "Excellent. We have our work cut out for us, Watson. Go, get your things. Mrs. Hudson is making an excellent game pie and if you hurry you'll be back in time for dinner. We have much work to do!"

Reader, if you have come this far, then you know of the work he spoke of. This, however, is how we first met, and for all the fear and terror that I felt, I have not regretted a single instance of it.


End file.
